A Pound of Flesh
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: What could be killing some of the most important and unlikable men in Gotham? That's something The Batman wants to find out, even if it means the death of him.


God was good. It wasn't as much an exclamation of faith from Ian Fletcher as it was a statement of fact. Where other men might peddle wares, a trade or even flesh, Ian Fletcher peddled religion and to him, God was marketable commodity. Profitable, bankable and financially strong.

The funny part about all of this was that Reverend Fletcher had never considered himself a religious man. It certainly wasn't the trade he had intended to apply his considerable talent to, but it was one that had allowed him to build an empire that was his alone. He'd started out by listening to his aunt giving a sermon and watched the power she held over her congregation. On Sunday, he asked if he could deliver the sermon. Ever indulgent, she had agreed and that was his humble start. From that, Fletcher had expanded to his own church, cut his own albums and tapes for those who wanted to be there, but couldn't. He currently had a book on the New York Best Sellers list, his own university and his own amusement park.

Not bad when you considered that he didn't have a college degree or any real business savvy to draw upon. All Ian Fletcher could do was talk. He excelled at that alone and he used it to its fullest advantage. And because he excelled, he decided that God must not mind commercialism, even when He is the item being sold.

The control Fletcher exerted over his followers was even more incredible. He could see why men like Jim Jones were seduced by the power. If he told them to, Fletcher was certain that a good many of his followers would murder, commit suicide or both. It gave him the power of life and death, nearly making him as godly as man whose word he sold. Pity his aunt didn't see it quite that way. She called him a fanatic, a danger to society. He called it sheer jealousy.

And tonight...tonight had been the highlight of his career. Tonight he had walked out onto the stage at the graduation of Gotham University, not only as its speaker, but recipient of his own college degree. An honorary degree, but that didn't matter to Fletcher. Gotham University had laughed at him before, even refused to consider his application and now they crawled to present him with a doctrine in Religion.

Yet even that left a bitter taste in his mouth, for with all his wealth, power and prestige, he was still refused the one thing he craved more than the rest, admittance into the inner circle of Gotham's elite. He had money, but it wasn't Old Money. He had power, but not the power of breeding. They looked down their nose at him. Perhaps when he had a son, if the son was sent to the right schools, made the right friends, then Fletcher would be permitted in get a toe within the crack. This was all unspoken, action agreed upon within the ranks.

Suddenly angry, he ripped off the satin graduation gown and threw it and its accompanying cap over the back of a chair. The Presidential Suite at the Gotham Arms was palatial and draped in flowers, offerings from his faithful flock members. They always seemed one step ahead of him, lavishing their gifts of money and flowers upon him, making sure that everyone knew just how important and godly the Reverend Ian Fletcher was.

It took a long hot shower before the Reverend calmed down. To Hell with them. After all, **he** had God on his side. Fletcher stepped out of the shower, rubbing at his balding head vigorous for a moment before using the towel to wipe off a spot on the steamy mirror. He studied his reflection for a long moment before waggling his eyebrows at himself and took a sip of the coffee room service had delivered. It was no wonder that the little old ladies swooned at his mere presence and men felt threatened.

A noise pulled his attention away from the mirror and he walked out into the suite. A woman was standing in the middle of the room, backlit, looking like an angel of old. She was wearing a loose flowing white satin robe, her blonde hair was held back by a matching satin ribbon. She loosened the ribbon and shook her hair free. It formed a golden halo around her head, framing it.

"Who are you? How did you get past the guards?" Those two muscle-bound apes could have stopped anything, including a train.

"Does it matter?" Her voice was musical and she approached him, turning slightly so he could see her face. Even with his extensive experience with members of the opposite sex, he'd never seen a woman quite this beautiful before. Immediately, his mind coughed up 'Venus', for she was definitely cut from that mold. The robe rustled softly as she approached.

"Yes, it matters very much," Reverend Fletcher managed to squeak out. There was something about her, some animal magnetism that he couldn't deny. Yet he had to be careful. There was always some over-enthusiastic zealot offering herself to him. He'd watched the fall of many of his 'co-workers' to the same cause. "You shouldn't be here. How did you get in?"

"You needn't fear me, Ian Fletcher," she said, just the tip of her lounge visible as she wet her lips. She signed deeply, her eyes languid. She emoted sex. "I am here for you to do with as you will. I am yours tonight."

"I don't think so..." Fletcher said. It was as if all his resistance was melting away the closer the woman came. Her voice was hypnotic and promised unlimited pleasure.

"You may say that, Ian Fletcher, but your body defies you." He suddenly realized that he was still naked from his shower and sporting an erection that couldn't be casually dismissed. "I am not here for your money or your career, I am here for the thing that only a man like you can provide me."

"And what exactly is that?" Fletcher had to admit his voice was sounding a little strained even before she opened the robe to reveal her lithe, naked body. Suddenly, ironically, the Rev. Fletcher was more tired than he'd ever been in his life. His eyes burned with fatigue and his head felt as if he were trying to support an elephant with it. It didn't make sense for he was also the most aroused he'd been in a long time. As his head nodded, he felt smooth soft hands on his body, caressing, soothing him as they led him, half-carried him, to the bed. Yes, God was good.

#bbbb#

Evening was coming later and daybreak dawning earlier with the onslaught on summer. This was good for a normal person, they would take advantage of the extra hours to picnic, play games and become innocent victims of pointless crimes.

However, no one would argue that the Batman was a normal person. The approaching summer severely cramped the hours that he had available to fight the filth that crawled over his city. Whenever possible, he avoided going out in the daylight. Darkness not only did add to his mystique, but it kept anyone from getting a really good look at the face behind the mask.

He picked at his dinner tray, discarding celery for a carrot stick. A salad plate wasn't his idea of dinner, but Bruce Wayne had been spending at too many cocktail parties as of late. The results tended to go straight to his waist and it was a narrow path he had to walk to keep in shape for his role as Gotham's protector. Too much weight gained and he couldn't fit into the batsuit. Too much weight lost and he would rattle around inside. Alterations were not optional. Thankfully he had Alfred to plan meals in the Batman's best interest.

The screen scrolled as it updated him on all the day's arrests, reports and disturbance. Recent cut backs in the budget had stretched the police department to the breaking point and the Batman did the best he could to follow up on the small stuff as well as the more publicized happenings. He was here for all men, not just the important or wealthy. Injustice knew no boundaries, neither did the Batman. Bruce bit into the carrot stick and chewed slowly.

Even with his attention focused, he heard Alfred descend the staircase from the Manor. The sound echoed within the cavernous walls of Batman's home, sending a wave of squeaking protest through its indigenous residents.

"What's up, Alfred?" Bruce asked, pausing the computer. He pop the last bite of carrot into his mouth and leaned back in the high back chair to give the butler his full attention.

"It was becoming rather chilly and I thought you might like your jacket." Bruce wanted to point out that he was no longer ten and knew when he was cold or hot, but knew it would only fall on deaf ears. Alfred had been taking care of Bruce since he was a baby; he wasn't about to stop now.

"Thank you." Rather than argue, he put on the jacket and reached over to check the printer. It had clattered to a stop, the report a tangled mass of paper. He shook his head and stooped down to straighten the paper out. "Last night's filed criminal reports. No matter how I try, it never seems to make a difference."

"You're too hard on yourself, Master Bruce," Alfred said, gently, his eyes scanning the computer screen. "You are but one man taking on an army. Even the Batman can only do so much."

"I know." His voice bordered on discouragement. He sat back and scratched his cheek. He didn't need a mirror to know he was already sporting a five o'clock shadow. "Too bad a job description didn't come with this position." The phone rang and Bruce looked at it for a moment before returning his attention to his butler. "And they're off." He picked up the receiver. "Yes?" His voice was husky, an octave deeper than Bruce Wayne's, for now he was the Batman.

"Batman, this is Commissioner Gordon." Why Jim felt he had to identify himself when he called was beyond Bruce. Only the Commissioner had access to this line. "I want to run something by you and see what your opinion is. Can we meet?"

"Where?"

"Gotham Arms."

#bbbb#

It took him longer to shave than it did to don the uniform. It took even less time to drive the distance between the Batcave and Gotham City. Of course, when you've got a car with a cruising speed of a hundred and ninety mph, it never took very long to get anywhere, with the exception of rush hour traffic.

Gordon was waiting for him as the Batman pulled up in front of the posh hotel. Bruce Wayne had spent more than one night there during the cultivation of his playboy reputation. It served him well as a cover, but now it also occasionally got in Wayne's way of being taken seriously.

"Shields up," he murmured and the Batmobile complied, bringing armored plates into place. Not only did it give the car a measure of protection, but it kept interested eyes at bay. A bellman cautiously watched the car and Batman found himself wondering what would have happened if he'd told the man to valet it for him. He barely managed to keep from grinning at the thought. It wouldn't do to have anyone know that the Batman had a sense of humor.

Batman started to walk and as when he passed Gordon, the commissioner fell into step beside him.

As they walked, Gordon spoke hurriedly, "We got the call about two this afternoon. Reverend Ian Fletcher, do you know of him?"

Television evangelist," Batman said, his eyes scanning the area he could easily see. The cowl gave him tunnel vision, making it necessary to turn his upper torso when he wanted the entire picture. It wasn't something he had counted on when designing the costume, but now was something he had to deal with constantly. The next generation of batsuit would improve upon that.

At this time of the night, the lobby was nearly empty and the few people in it were much too involved with their own lives to pay either man much more than casual attention.

"He's always managed to keep his nose clean and that gave him a really ugly 'holier-than-thou' attitude," Gordon said with a grimace. "Last night, he addressed the graduating class of Gotham University. They also awarded him an honorary doctrine of religion. He thanked them by telling them basically what a bunch of low life they were for having taken so long. He was really worked up... it was pretty comical in a tragic way."

"His scholastic record prevented him from being admitted," Batman said as they stopped in front of a private elevator.

Gordon handed him the paper he'd been carrying beneath an arm and Batman unfolded it. The front page headline blared in forty-five pitch, _Man of God Called Home_. Quickly he scanned the column, noting that Knox had the by-line. Batman ignored how peculiar it must have looked for him to be standing there, waiting for an elevator and reading the paper. So much for image.

"Dead? In his hotel room? What was the cause of death?" The report said it was being withheld pending a police investigation and that wasn't enough for the Batman.

"That's what I want to talk to you about, old friend," Gordon said slowly as they entered the elevator. It was as if he was unwilling or not ready to reveal the information. "Ian Fletcher was thirty eight years old." The commissioner slid a key into the corresponding hole and hit the button for the penthouse.

"Yes?"

"The body we found was that of an eighty year old."

"Misidentified?"

"We verified the body through fingerprints. They matched perfectly."

"Are you certain?"

"Fletcher had a rather colorful teen record. Before he found God, that is. Afterwards, he straightened out and became an exemplary bad-gone-wonderful model. I never believed it, of course, but he was too clever to be caught with dirty hands."

"Were there any signs of a struggle? Forced entry?"

"Nothing. There was a pair of security guards posted outside the door and the only way to access the penthouse is through this elevator with this special key." He held it up for the Batman's inspection.

"Or from the roof," Batman said, examining the key closely. "Who has copies of this?"

"The manager. The maid has to ask him for the key to service the room. She was the one who found the body and notified us. I sealed the room after the call came through. The only other person who has a copy is the guest himself. As for the roof, it's a sheer drop of thirty stories to the street below and you'd have to have nerves of steel to execute it. You're the only one I know who regularly uses that as a form of entrance and I have no intention of asking you where you were at 11:45 last night. Nor would I expect that you'd answer me if I did. However, I was hoping that maybe you could come up with something that the homicide squad missed."

The elevator doors opened and they stepped out into a short hallway. Two large men were stationed protectively before a white, ornately-carved oriental door. Neither man seemed inclined to move as the Batman and Commissioner Gordon approached. In fact, just the opposite. They gathered their ranks.

"Stand aside, gentlemen," Gordon said, tight-lipped, reaching for his badge.

"And who are you, pal and who's your leather-loving friend?" Both men were a good five inches taller than the Batman, but that didn't bother him. The guards were bunched with muscles that they had found in the gym. It made them too bulky to fight efficiently. They knew how to pose, but the Batman reckoned they didn't know how to use them in a combat situation. The Batman, on the other hand, did.

It didn't take him long to demonstrate the difference. Batman slammed a fist into the throat on the nearest man and he dropped to his knees, hands clutching his neck as he choked for breath. The steel-reinforced sole of the Batman's boot found the other guard's stomach and he crumbled without even having had the opportunity to react to his partner's plight.

Batman straightened and reached out, one-handedly dragged the speaker up to his feet until he was nose-to-nose with the crimefighter. "I'm Batman," he whispered with a smirk. He threw the man aside and looked over at Gordon, who wasn't bothering to disguise his delight.

As they stepped passed the men and into the penthouse, Gordon could no longer resist. "God, I love it when you do that."

Batman said, "That should teach them some manners," as Gordon led the way through the Presidential Suite. Not that he needed to, the Batman, or rather Bruce Wayne, was more than familiar with its layout. He'd spent a very interesting, but exhausting weekend here not that long ago.

Any pleasant memories he might have momentarily recalled were pushed aside at the sight that sprawled across the bed. The man was easily eighty years old, he was buck naked **and** he was smiling. Batman had never seen such a look of bliss on the face of a dead man before.

"Strange," he muttered as he bent to examine the body. Rigor mortis had stiffened it, but the Batman didn't let that stop him. It just slowed him down a little.

"What?" Gordon immediately knelt beside him and started looking around.

"His face," Batman said, lips pursed in thought. "People who meet with unexpected death do not usually do so with a smile." There was no visible sign of violence on the body. "Have you determined to be the cause of death?"

"We won't know until we do an autopsy. We're waiting for the okay from his aunt." The black cowled head turned in question. "In the meantime, we have to contend with the restless hordes of his followers." Gordon watched as the crimefighter continued his examination of the corpse. "Did you ever meet the man?" The black cowled head shook once briefly. "You're lucky. I did. He was obnoxious, demanding, and condescending. In short, he was a real pain in the ass."

The phone in the suite rang and Gordon hurried to pick it up. As he spoke quietly into the instrument, Batman continued his task. There was nothing outwardly wrong with the body. It was just very old. Batman was puzzled. What could have aged a thirty eight year-old man so severely in just a matter of hours?

Gordon cradled the phone and rejoined the crimefighter. "Can I let the clean-up squad into the room? I was holding off until you had a chance to look it over."

"Yes," Batman muttered, then his eyes narrowed. There was something entangled in one of Fletcher's hands.

"What did you find?" Gordon leaned closer for a better look as Batman wrenched the object free and held it up. It was a long white satin hair ribbon.

"Perhaps Fletcher wasn't alone, after all," Batman said. "I would suggest a more aggressive questioning of the guards." He took a small tube from his utility belt and carefully lowered the ribbon into it.

"That's police evidence," Gordon pointed out, knowing full and well that there was nothing he could do to stop the man even if he wanted.

"I understand that, Gordon," Batman murmured as he tucked the tube away.

"You'll let me know if you find anything."

"Of course."

There was a knock at the door and Batman walked to the balcony. The Batharpoon slid into place on his belt and he freed the gun to aim it into the dark Gotham shadows. He was gone before the squad entered.

#bbbb#

The rest of the night was spent chasing down scum. It gave him a sense of satisfaction every time he tied one of them up, even knowing that they would be back out on the street within a matter of hours. If he managed to prevent just one crime from taking place, it was worth the effort, the danger and the pain.

The Batmobile roared through the cave tunnel, automatically slowing as it approached the turntable. It braked to a smooth stop just inches from a precipice that dropped several hundred feet straight down. If the brakes ever went out, there would be no escape from plummeting death, but that was just a part of the game he played.

The canopy slid back, however, the Batman remained seated, tilting his head back to study the dark, cavernous ceiling. Other returning bats easily avoided the stalactites, slipping into shadows as they prepared for day's rest. He watched them for a long moment before letting out a long exhausted sigh.

His chest throbbed from having a two-by-four broken across it. His arms and back ached from a night of building climbing. Everything hurt, right down to his toenails - his payment for a hard night's work. He climbed from the car, not having the strength or desire to leap gracefully from it. The bats wouldn't have been impressed anyway. He stopped by a cage, examining its occupant.

For all the material written about their sense of radar, it still didn't keep one from occasionally bashing into a stalactite or having a hunter take a pot shot at them, like the bat in the cage. He pulled off his gloves, dropped them to the floor, and reached into the cage. The bat let out a high-pitched squeak as he was taken from his perch and protested again as Batman extended a wing, examining it beneath a nearby low-watt light. He kept the lighting to a minimum to avoid disturbing the eco-culture of the cave any more than he had to.

A sensor at the mouth of the cave notified the butler of his master's return and Alfred appeared now, bearing a tray with a glass and a bottle of mineral water. "Good evening, Master Bruce," Alfred said as he balanced and poured. "How is our little patient today?"

"He looks pretty good. Another day or so and he'll be ready to rejoin the flock." He stroked the head with a gentle finger and placed the bat back in the cage. "How are things going here?" He accepted the proffered glass and downed the contents quickly.

"Mr. Fox asked me to remind you of the eleven o'clock board meeting. And Dr. Thompkins wanted to know if you could meet for a late lunch at Kabul West."

The cowl was pulled off and Bruce Wayne began to emerge, turning his head sidewise to read Alfred's watch. "Tell Lucius I'll be there and have Leslie schedule lunch for about two." He stooped to retrieve his gloves to carry them and the cowl to their resting place. He snapped his fingers, "And Jim may call regarding an autopsy. I'd like to make that if possible. He may be willing to schedule it for evening."

"I shall endeavor to avoid the placement of the autopsy and luncheon within each other's proximity."

The millionaire continued peeling off the costume, then yawned and massaged a sore spot on his shoulder. He didn't even remember banging it, but by the size of the knot beneath the skin, he should have. There was an eight-inch-long bruise already forming across his chest and he rubbed it gently.

Suddenly he remembered the ribbon and pulled the vial out of his belt. He reached for a metal plate and shook the contents out. The ribbon fell in a delicate pile and Bruce held it up with a pair of tweezers.

"Are you considering altering the batsuit, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he settled the cowl on its stand. Bruce smirked at the comment, knowing the butler was trying to break the dark facade that enveloped his employer.

"This is my only clue from a murder scene and I was hoping that it might tell me something." He gave the chair a push and together they slid across the floor until Wayne sat before a microscope. Draping the ribbon beneath the objective lens, he focused the microscope. Slowly he drew the ribbon across the field of view and shook his head while sighing deeply.

"Were you really expecting anything, sir?" Alfred asked.

"No, I suppose not. It was just...just once it would be nice to get a break." He stood. "I'll see you in a few hours," he said as he started up the stairs.

#bbbb#

In a room of stark white, the black of the Batsuit was strangely out of place. The coroner finished making a final incision and removed the skull cap, revealing the brain of Ian Fletcher. Batman had been through a dozen autopsies, the gore aspect had disappeared years ago, if it had ever existed for him to begin with. All he had now was a scientific fascination with how and why the body existed at all, a love presumably inherited from his father.

"No visible signs of damage to the brain, such as a blow. We'll exam the lungs to see if there is any blood in them, just in case." The coroner took a sample of the brain tissue and continued on, cataloging each step as he went. For Batman, it was too slow by half, but there were students and rookie cops sitting in, or rather trying to sit in. It seemed a few left every time an organ was removed and dropped with an audible _sloup_ into metal bowls.

Batman stood beside the doctor, his eyes studying the man's handiwork carefully. A lung was removed and sliced into. The coroner turned to the black-costumed man. "What do you think?"

"Your preliminary supposition was correct. There was no blow to the head," Batman responded back, using a probe to pull back the tissue and examine the cut more closely. "He smoked too much."

"Why is that?" asked one of the cops. "I mean, how do you know about the blow?"

"Quite often when there is a blow to the head, blood is likely to settle in the lungs because of it," the coroner said, then held up the heart. "If that were the case, there would also be clots in the heart." He seemed blissfully unaware as another person headed for the door.

The autopsy continued and finally the doctor dropped the scalpel to the tray and shook his head. He locked eyes with the Batman, now the sole remaining observer. "As far as I can tell, this man was not killed. He simply died of old age."

"Impossible."

"Tell him that. He's the one who's dead."

"What could age a man like that?"

"Nothing I know of. There are some diseases that have rapid aging as part of their course, but even they couldn't produce results like this literally overnight. There's something else. There's no semen in the body."

"What?"

"Not a drop." The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Guess we know why he died with smile on his face."

#bbbb#

"No what?"

"You heard me, Jim," Batman said, without turning from the window. "Either one or both of the guards are lying or there's an entirely new breed of cat burglar afoot." He stared through the stained, dust-covered slats of the venetian blinds, eyes scanning the horizon for he didn't know what.

"There's one other explanation."

"Unless he is extremely secretive about his masturbation, there would have been traces somewhere - on the sheets, his hands. It's possible, but not likely."

"We'll bring the guards back in for questioning, although I don't imagine we'll get anything from them. Call it gut instinct, but I don't think they're lying." Gordon stood and walked to his side. "Would you like to question them?" he asked softly. "I could arrange something."

"Perhaps later."

#bbbb#

There was a dead calm settled upon the city. Had he been given to wax poetic, the Batman might have compared it to some eloquent metaphor or the other. As it was, it was merely hot. Trouble fermented in heat like this and with this new, so far undetermined situation, it was trouble he didn't need.

A nearby shot, screaming and he was off, swinging down from the building with a practiced ease. Had he lingered a moment longer, he would have notice something. It was something that would have made even a man who routinely dressed up as a bat paused. Outside a window, a person was hovering, peering voyeuristically through the glass. A Peeping Tom thirty stories above the streets of Gotham.

Inside, a man stood before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, posing. To Alan Altaffer's way of thinking, it didn't get any better than this. He never tired looking at his handiwork. His carefully- honed body, with its lovingly-sculpted muscles and its even, oiled tan was perfection in itself, a gift from the Gods to its favorite.

Granted it had taken a team of skilled physicians to fix the little imperfections, a host of trainers to work the muscles, plenty of drugs to accelerate or slow down, depending on the problem area.

And lots and lots of money. Alan's mother had died a premature death, forced to work two jobs while her son pursued his dream. It had been worth it though, at least to Alan's way of thinking. If she were alive now, he would have set it right with her, gotten her some of the things she needed, but had to do without. Well, at least that's what he told himself when his conscious started to gnaw at him.

Of course, he'd simply kept himself too busy before to take care of such things while she lived. He'd been making a comfortable salary that afforded him luxuries while his mother scrubbed toilets and washed other people's clothes. She'd been there to bail him out when years of self-abuse began to take their pound of flesh from Altaffer.

It was a shame that she wasn't here to share in his glory, although he wouldn't have permitted her in the suite. His successful return would have commanded him to ignore her any way. He couldn't be connected with a common washwoman after all. Same went for his sister, not that she was likely to admit any kinship to him. They had never gotten along. She was just jealous that he was so beautiful and talented and she was so...so ordinary.

He frowned at the thought that his plans might have been threatened by a stupid police investigation. Well, sure a man had been found dead here a couple of days ago. So what? A thick wad of money had convinced the hotel manager of his mistake and the suite was made ready for its God.

He took a swallow of coffee, making a face at its lukewarm temperature. It didn't matter, he'd simply order more.

He half turned and loving studied his profile. Soon the modelling agencies would be doubling, tripling their prices to get just five minutes of him. It had been a long hard climb back up the ladder, but that hot shot in Vegas was going to be eating dog food in the Unemployment Line when Alan got through with him. Tomorrow, in this very suite, he would reveal the new and improved Alan A and the modelling world would shake to its core. There would be calendars, movie offers, maybe even his own talk show.

He shook back his blond sun-streaked hair and that's when he saw her out of the corner of his eye. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and he'd seen plenty of 'em. She was wearing a long white silk robe, her blonde hair tied back with a matching ribbon.

"Alan Altaffer," she sang/spoke as she pulled the ribbon and the hair cascaded forward. "I am the woman of your dreams." She walked, no, glided towards him and draped the ribbon around his neck.

"I got some powerful dreams, lady," Alan said, transfixed by her. She was easily the most incredible thing he'd ever seen, himself excluded, of course. She smiled sleepily, pulling the ribbon across the tanned skin, her tongue toying with her lips. "Who are you?"

"Does it matter," She asked, taking a step away and opened the robe. The body revealed was incredibly muscled, well-tanned and completely naked. Alan suddenly realized what they meant by coming in your pants, he was about to burst out of his bikini shorts.

"No," Alan squeaked out as she began to rub against him. He decided that if he had that much effect on this woman, he would be about to be ask for four times as much from the agencies tomorrow. A wave of exhaustion rolled over him, drawing him to the carpet. Everything was in slow motion as the woman smiled at him, joining him on the floor, straddling him. Alan smiled as he got his comeback started with a bang.

#bbbb#

Batman intercepted the call on the police ban just as the Bat Signal lit the sky, reflecting against the building cumulus clouds. It was easier to take the high road than fight the traffic that always seemed to clog Gotham's streets, even at 4 am.

Besides, as the crow, or in this case, the bat flies, the Gotham Arms was just around the corner. He aimed the batharpoon skyward and pulled the trigger.

Even from the roof tops, it was easy to pick out the Gotham Arms. It was the tallest in the neighborhood and the only one touting a restaurant on its thirty-first floor. He dropped through the rooftop and looked around for his bearings. The police call didn't say where in the hotel the murder had taken place. However, it was likely that the presidential suite was still sealed off as police evidence.

He swung over the edge of the building and landed lightly upon plant-lined patio. It should be a piece of cake to jimmy the door and let himself in. That's when he noticed that the door was already ajar. A warning bell started the clang in his head and his lips compressed themselves into a thin line. Either the Gotham police were getting clumsy and lackadaisical about their job or...

The Batman reached for the door and slid it back slowly, silently. That's when the cannonball hit him in the chest, slamming him back against the iron railing. Over-balanced, he was over the edge before even realizing what had happened. He'd trained years for situations like this and his movements were instinctive rather than conscious. The batharpoon was around and in his hand before he's fallen the length of a story. It fired and the rope was wrapped firmly around his gauntlet. The stop jerked fiercely, but considering the alternative, it was a small price to pay. The pain laced through his side from his shoulder to his groin. Yet it was secondary when one took into account the effect that bouncing off the pavement had on the human body.

What had hit him? He looked around at the sky, now rosy pink with the approaching dawn. It was empty with the exception of a waning Bat signal and a solitary bat that was hot footing it back to its roost. That meant that whatever **it** was was likely to still be on the balcony or within the suite.

The Batman approached the balcony with considerably more caution the second time. It was empty and the curtain blew from within, the white material flapping in the draft. This time, he kept well to the right of the door, his back against the concrete of the building.

Nothing happened as he pulled aside the curtain. The suite was dark and quiet. After a long moment of study, he darted inside and settled into the shadows.

He reached out and hit a switch, blinking as the room was flooded with light. Nothing was out of place unless you counted the body sprawled out on the floor. He ignored it for the moment, intent upon searching the rest of the suite first for his attacker. Whatever it was must have left immediately afterwards for the suite was now empty.

Batman knelt beside the man and probed the neck for a pulse. There wasn't one, not to his surprise. Even face down, it was obvious that the dead man was extremely old. He rolled the man over just as Gordon, flanked by uniforms, burst into the room. The noise brought the Batman instinctively up to his feet, fists raised before him and the cops aimed their guns at the crimefighter. As if that would stop him.

"Hold your fire," Gordon ordered gruffly. He did not look happy as he stalked up to the Batman. "Another one?"

He nodded. "Who was it?"

"His name was Alan Altaffer," Gordon said, consulting a notebook. "A local pretty boy model. Hit the skids about two years ago."

"Wasn't this room sealed?"

"He was getting ready for a big modeling comeback and had decided this room was somehow linked to its success. He bribed the manager to let him use the suite."

"Another avenue to pursue."

"We'll bring him in for questioning. If he could be bridged once, then twice wouldn't be a problem."

The Batman didn't appear to be listening as something familiar caught his attention. It was a white hair ribbon. Altaffer's body had been partially laying on it.

#bbbb#

"Two deaths in three days, same hotel, same room." Alfred Pennyworth regarded his young employer seriously.

"Same ribbon, same lack of clues."

"I believe you have a pattern, sir." There was silence as Bruce Wayne finished a set of bench presses and settled the bar back into its rest. He sat up and wiped the sweat from his face.

"Under normal circumstances, I'd agreed, but look at the situation." He stood and placed more weight on the bar. "Both of those men were in their late thirties, but they died of old age. Tell me that's normal."

"In a town that boasts such grand grotesques as the Joker and the Penguin, hardly anything seems unlikely these days." Wayne sighed and bobbed his head in agreement as he returned to the bench. "You got a point there."

The manservant was silent as Wayne grunted and fought against the weight of the barbell. He conceded to it after just a few presses. "Alfred, make a reservation for me."

"Is it even necessary for me to inquire where, Master Bruce?"

"I don't think so, unless you're slipping." He rubbed the sweat away with a nearby towel and pulled off the weight gloves. "I should warn you that the manager's going to give you a hard time. Jim's taken him in for questioning. I doubt he'll let us into the room before the police have finished with it."

"Perhaps you should wait a few days then, sir."

"I don't care how you do it, but I want to be the next person in that room." He pulled on a sweatshirt. "I'll be back."

"I shall warn Mr. Schwarzenegger."

#bbbb#

The porter opened the door and allowed the billionaire to precede him into the room, then struggled in with the luggage. 'If he only knew what he was hauling,' Bruce Wayne thought. Those case held his Batsuit, along with more common items. Bruce walked over to the balcony and examined the sliding glass door. There were new, more secure locks along the edge of the door now and a sensor alarm. That wouldn't stop whatever had killed two men and it certainly wouldn't stop the Batman.

He returned to the living/dining room of the suite and looked around. Unless you were a regular reader of the papers or worked with the police department, you wouldn't have known that two murders had taken place here just days prior.

"Will that be all, sir?" The porter asked as he deposited the last case in the bedroom and rejoined the dark-haired Wayne.

"Yes, that will be fine, thank you," Bruce passed him a bill as he shook the bellman's hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. If you need anything, my name is Chris."

"I'll remember that, Chris." He waited for the man to depart before shrugging off his light weight suit jacket and dropping it on the couch. With one hand, he undid his tie and it joined the jacket. Twilight was just starting to tug at the skyline, staining the ever-present clouds and smog with orange and red. Soon it would be dark, time for him to go to work. Until then, he had to wait and plan.

He lifted the receiver and dialed Room Service, ordering dinner and lots of coffee. That accomplished, he sat down on the couch and stared out at the city.

"Who are you?" he whispered after a moment, chewing on his bottom lip. The city remained silent.

#bbbb#

The Batman stood in the shadows of the darkened Presidential Suite. He'd been in the same spot for nearly three hours, but to no avail. Perhaps Bruce Wayne wasn't enough of a target for whoever had been responsible for the other deaths. Granted he wasn't in the same class as the two dead men. They had been self-made successes, he'd simply been born in his wealth.

He looked over at the bed where a shape molded the sheets into that of a man asleep. It's amazing what you could do with pillows and a little creativity, but perhaps it hadn't been enough to bait the murderer.

He shifted his weight from one leg to another. If something didn't happen soon, he was going to have to rethink his strategy.

Or sit down.

The whisper of a noise as the patio door slid back caught his thoughts and he stiffened as the moonlight cast a shadow upon the rug before the patio window. Soundless now, it entered and moved slowly, with great care towards the bed, its white robe flowing out behind it. It looked eerie, ghost like.

"Bruce Wayne," the shadow murmured, as if not to wake him. "I have come for you. Paradise will never be this sweet for you again." The woman, for her voice confirmed her as such, reached out to touch the sleeping form. "What?" She instantly realized his trick.

"It's over," Batman said, his voice rough with disuse. The lights in the suite popped on as he triggered a remote, then tossed it aside.

She turned, her face twisted. _Talk about Hell hath no fury_, he thought to himself. She drew her hand back, fingers arched like a claw...like a claw. He thought suddenly of Selina without meaning to and dodged slightly as the hand slashed the air towards him. They missed him and instead found the lacy material of the over drapes. It gave him precious minutes to recover himself and his thoughts.

"Nice try," he said. "Who are you?"

The woman struggled her hand free, then turned to smile seductively at him. Immediately, he was wary of the change. It was set to throw him off balance. Instead of making his usual eye contact as he preferred in a battle, he found himself watching her hands instead. "What difference does it make? I have come to bring you pleasure beyond Heaven."

"I don't think so," he said, keeping an arm's length between them, his eyes now constantly moving.

"Nor does that matter." She opened the voluminous robe she wore, revealing her nakedness. It struck him as a peculiar thing to do, but who was he to judge odd behavior? After all, **he** dressed up as a bat at night.

She reached back to undo her hair, her breasts hitched up at the motion. She was in incredible shape and certainly beautiful, that couldn't be denied, but so were many of the other women he'd been to bed with. If she was trying to seduce him, it would take more than physical beauty.

She must have sensed a lack of interest on his part as well for she began to act coy with him, turning to hide her nakedness from him as if suddenly embarrassed. Catwoman had taught him well on that part too. Instead he watched her with a stony disinterest.

"You're going to jail," he said, when it became apparent that she wasn't going to speak.

"Me? To jail? On what charge?" She asked before her voice eroded into a laugh. She tilted her head back and drew the white hair ribbon across her lips.

"Murder."

She walked a few paces from him, her long blond hair oscillating as she shook her head. "I think not, Mere Mortal." Mere mortal, was he? He'd see about that. He'd...he'd get out of her way. He narrowly missed her charge, but used the opportunity to drive his elbows downward into her neck as she passed. Strangely, it felt like hitting a sponge and had as much effect. Luckily the wall was behind him and she ran head on into it. That would have slowed him down even with the reinforced steel plating in the cowl, but it didn't stop her. She immediately spun, snarling and growling deep in her throat, more animal than human.

He'd be the first to admit that nothing much surprised him anymore, but now his eyes widened and he brought his fists up protectively. Whoever this woman was, he was not going down with a fight, if indeed, he went down at all.

She sensed his fierce determination and held her place, looking at him like he was a piece of Halloween candy, all ready for the unwrapping and eating. He was also aware of something else as he locked eyes with her. Without conscious thought and certainly without his intentions, his body was starting to respond to the woman. This was not something the Batsuit was designed to handle and the pressure against his groin was enough to make his teeth grate.

She sensed his discomfort and posed provocatively before him. "You know what you want. It is a release I, and I alone, can give you."

"Sorry." He lashed out a foot and caught her in the stomach, sending her backwards over a chair. After a moment, she stood. If she was angry before, now she was really furious.

"I offer you blissful salvation and you throw it away. I will take what I want and break you like a twig."

"Maybe, but I don't think so." Alfred had often warned him of over-confidence, but before now he reasoned he had cause to be. His Batsuit protected him from most physical injuries, his training and intelligence did the rest. This time he wasn't fast enough to completely avoid her rush and she caught him with a powerhouse that felt like it went through his stomach and out his back. The Batman collapsed to the floor, gasping with lungs that abruptly didn't want to function.

The woman laughed and shrugged off the robe as it were in her way. That's when he saw the wings.

"Jesus," he swore without realizing it and she smiled, revealing even white teeth.

"He will do you little good now, although in a very short time, you **will** be able to discuss it with him in person." She came to stand over him. A wash of exhaustion flooded over him and merely keeping his eyes open was suddenly the hardest battle he ever fought. She felt her hands against his suit, tugging and pulling at the unyielding material. Instinctively, his hands went to his belt, although he wasn't sure why.

There was a sudden piercing shriek and he came awake with a brute force. Somehow, the spear gun had swung around and disengaged. Designed to bore into concrete, it had caught his attacker full in the shoulder, leaving behind a trail of blood and gore as it tore through flesh and buried itself in the opposite wall.

She howled and flailed the air with her uninjured arm like a wounded animal.

"So you can be hurt," Batman muttered, more to himself than anyone else. She was lucky it didn't have any of the reinforced cable attached to it or she'd have been in a world of serious pain.

He dragged himself away, drawing deep breaths into his lungs. Already he was feeling better, but it was something his attacker wasn't sharing.

She tried to say something, but her voice wasn't working except to whimper. Instead, she staggered to the balcony and the Batman watched stoically. After what seemed to be a lifetime, he got up on his hands and knees, then to his feet, He stood swaying in place until he found his center of gravity and followed after her in faltering steps, his erection made walking not the most pleasant task confronting him.

The trail of blood lead to the railing of the balcony and he stood by the door for a long time before venturing out. He'd gotten suckered into leaning over an edge once before and had nearly ended up as a chalk mark on the pavement.

He aimed the Batharpoon skyward and anchored the harpoon into an upper floor. Wrapping the cord around his gauntlet, he went up the edge.

There was nothing on the overhang of the balcony, waiting to Shanghai him. In fact, there was nothing period. No body, no nothing, except the blood trail and a slight buzzing in his ears.

He dropped down to the balcony's concrete floor and wearily, he walked back into the suite and collapsed into an overstuffed armchair. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his stomach muscles were starting to ache and he felt nauseous.

Then the phone rang and he jumped involuntarily. For a moment he considered answering it, but didn't. After a minute of incessant ringing, it fell silent.

With a groan, Batman rose and walked over the trail of blood that led from the room. He was going to need a cover story, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

He looked down at his suit and a finger traced one of the numerous gouges dragged across the loin guard and cuisses of the Batsuit. That was a lady who knew what she wanted. He was lucky he escaped with his...virtue intact. Alfred was never going to believe this one. He took a step and winced. In the meantime, he had a couple of things to take care of.

#bbbb#

"You're correct, sir. I do not believe you." Alfred Pennyworth had to concede that point to his younger employer. "Sir if she were so determined, why on earth did you protest so fiercely?" The butler stood beside the heavy mahogany desk, doing his best to keep from tidying up the paper-strewn top.

"Alfred, please! It was our first date! What kind of gentleman do you think I am?" Bruce Wayne smiled up at the butler and settled his glasses back onto his head. "Thankfully Jim didn't seem to find anything weird in the fact that I was gone and the Batman was there instead. He was expecting another murder. He was glad to get a blood sample and my assurance that none of it had come from Mr. Wayne. I was pretty happy about it to."

"Master Bruce, excuse me for questioning you, but are you sure you saw wings? After all, you admitted that you felt drugged. Perhaps a hallucination explains it?"

Blue eyes squinted with the effort of remembering. "I don't think so," he admitted slowly, thoughtfully. He dropped his voice. "But the question remains, what was I fighting if it wasn't human?"

"I have been researching that possibility, sir," Alfred said and walked over to one of the numerous bookshelves that made up the walls of the library. He searched for a moment, then retrieved a volume. After brushing it off with the feather duster he'd had tucked beneath an arm, he passed it over to Wayne.

"_Dictionary of the Paranormal and the Occult_," Bruce read the cover aloud. "Dad had this in his collection?" It constantly amazed him what books resided upon the shelves of the library. Maybe someday he'd get them all read...maybe someday he'd get his desk cleared off.

"I believe it was your grandmother's. She had a minor interest in such things in her later years." Alfred pulled up a Duncan Phyfe chair and sat down beside him. "The information you require is on page one hundred and fifty seven."

Eyebrow cocked in curiosity, Bruce slid his glasses into place and began flipping through the pages, pausing briefly at one entry, then another before continuing on. Finally, he reached the indicated page and pursed his lips at the picture. It was of a beautiful woman with long blonde hair cascading back over a pair of wings. "That's her, all right, or her sister," he agreed, then glanced down at the text. "A succubus? A major demon who descends upon men while they sleep and has sexual intercourse with them. I wasn't asleep, Alfred."

"But she believed Bruce Wayne was. Possibly, she attacked you in self-defense and saw an opportunity to, shall we say, fulfill her primary mission."

Bruce grimaced, then continued to read aloud, "Victims are drained of their energy as the succubus feeds... odd choice of words," he looked up at his butler, "...upon them. The result for the victim is death by old age. Obviously, this belief traces back to when they equated sex with energy."

"Obviously," Alfred murmured, adjusting his glasses for a better look. "It says here that although they possess superhuman strength, they can be killed through conventional means."

"That would explain why the Batharpoon drove it off the first time." He traced the rest of the article with a slender forefinger. "I wonder why it decided on the Presidential Suite as a site for its attacks."

"If it is a demon, perhaps it was summoned by someone for revenge. It does say that it can be controlled, although it constantly looks for a way to escape its bondage." Alfred straightened and grew thoughtful.

"Are you thinkin' what I am, Alfred?" Bruce asked after a long moment of mutual silence. "Obviously demons don't exist, but humans take many shapes. Did either Fletcher or Altaffer have surviving relatives? ...wait, Jim mentioned an aunt was coming to identify the Reverend's body. Police will have her name on report. And Altaffer had a sister I believe."

The butler rose smoothly. "I shall begin a trace for them." Then he paused, staring so intently at his employer that the millionaire was inclined to ask, "What's wrong, Alfred?"

"I don't recall you having gray hair, sir."

"I don't. At least not much. Why?"

The butler glanced around the room and retrieved a highly polished tray from beneath a cut lead crystal decanter and matching glasses. He handed to Wayne, then angled the tray properly so that Wayne could see his hair. There was a dusting of gray at both temples.

"Huh, what do you know about that? Things must be catching up with me."

"Very good, sir. I will see to that trace."

"Thank you," Bruce said absently, his attention refocused upon the article. After a moment, he closed the book and chewed on the corner of his bottom lip as he returned to the tray and his hair. He reached up and ran a hand through his hair. "Curiousier and curiousier."

#bbbb#

The television was on, but Bruce Wayne hadn't heard a thing the newscaster had said in the last fifteen minutes. Anything that he wanted to know about wasn't likely to show up on the Gotham Evening News. There was a brief mention that the Presidential Suite of the Gotham Arms had been taken out of service for re-modeling, thanks to the insistence of the Batman. Thankfully, Gordon hadn't pressed him for details. He didn't want to explain his suspicions, preferring to chew on them for a while without the police interference Jim would call help.

Bruce reached for his coffee cup and sipped the tepid contents. Making a face, he replaced it and picked up the remote for the TV instead, flipping from one channel to the next in an attempt to escape the current lottery madness that had descended upon the city. Even Lucius had succumb to it. Bruce turned the instrument off entirely, shaking his head in disbelief. What some people would do to get rich.

When he was this restless, there was only one thing to do and that was go out. Bruce stood and walked over to his desk, hand outstretched for a hidden toggle.

"Master Bruce?"

Alfred's voice stayed the hand and the dark-haired man looked over his shoulder at his manservant. "Yes, Alfred?"

"I have the information that you requested, sir."

"Excellent. I'll take it below."

"I thought as much, sir. It is waiting for you there."

"Would you like to join me?" A bookcase swung out, revealing a pole.

"I shall take more conventional methods, sir. My aged bones do not knit as quickly as yours." Wayne grinned and was gone.

He seated himself at the computer console, fingers hurriedly typing instructions into it. The blue screen disappeared into a flurry of words on the right and a photo to the left. The picture was of a very prim and proper lady, hair pulled back into a severe bun, glasses perched on the end of her nose.

"Rachel Fletcher. Must be the aunt," Bruce said, looking over his shoulder as Alfred approached. "Says here that she was an aspiring minister when her nephew breezed in and literally stole her congregation away from her. She was apparently not as much of a showcaser as he was."

"I seem to recall having seen Rev. Fletcher on TV and have to confess that he was an excellent speaker. Very persuasive and sincere in his approach. I was nearly convinced to making a contribution myself," the butler said from a second chair. His screen mimicked that of his employer's.

"You, Alfred?" Bruce's voice was incredulous. "My opinion of Fletcher just went up another notch. His aunt stood to gain nothing from his death, except his death." He started chewing on the corner of his bottom lip. "But would it be enough to make her kill? A God-fearing, God-loving woman?"

"Everyone has their limits. Perhaps she had reached hers."

"Perhaps." The screen changed to that of a younger woman. She was fairly non-descript, with the exception of her eyes. Bruce reached out a finger and traced one pupil. "Look at her eyes, Alfred. She's seen her share of suffering."

"Yes, sir. Terrie Altaffer has had a rather tragic life, mostly at the hands of her brother. There were charges of incest at one point in his career, which I believe is what led to his initial downfall. After that, he went out of his way to torment her. The mother was too busy working to be a successful mediator. It was the belief of the police that the sister was dead, but she appeared to identify the body. Rather eagerly, according to the gentleman I spoke with.

"I think it's time to pay a little visit to the relatives of the dearly departed. Maybe they can shed a little more light on the situation."

"I wouldn't anticipate cooperation from either lady, Master Bruce." Alfred had turned in his chair as the billionaire stood and began to unbutton his shirt.

"I never do, Alfred."

#bbbb#

The Batman dropped silently to the ground and moved through the bushes. They provided excellent cover and permitted him to get close to the house. Fletcher's aunt lived in a small house in the one of Gotham's older neighborhoods.

He stood on the cement patio for several moments while ascertaining the best way to approach the woman within the house. He could see her silhouette flicker across curtains as she passed from one room to another and back. It brought to mind a similar incident not long ago.

"A little restless tonight?" the Batman asked the shadow softly. "Could it be your conscience bothering you?" The silhouette approached the sliding glass window and light suddenly split out as the curtain was pulled back sharply. There had been plenty of time for him to seclude himself within the remaining shadows and he stood quietly, watching a face that could neither see nor hear him.

The door slid open and a woman stepped out into the Gotham night. She was thin and appeared as brittle as a piece of fine china, but not as old as her picture made her look. According to the police reports, she'd been pretty smug as she identified her nephew's body, muttering about God and His divine wisdom to anyone who would listen. The Batman moved silently, into the light and let her discover him. She gasped and involuntarily took a step backwards, stumbling against a piece of wrought iron furniture.

"Demon from Hell, what do you want?" She caught herself from falling and crossed herself with the crucifix she wore.

"Justice." He watched her carefully, eyes looking for any sort of hint at her guilt.

"For whom? My nephew?" She laughed sharply, pulling a loose cardigan around herself. "He got what God felt he deserved."

"He was murdered in cold blood."

"In very hot blood, you mean! I read the medical reports and the nasty little things the doctors discovered. He was a minister of God's word!"

"He was only a man."

"Of course, you'd say that. You're as dirty and corrupt as he was. You won't see the obvious."

"Perhaps it is you who is blind to the obvious," Batman said, quietly, a dangerous edge tinging the words. "Deserving or not, a person is dead, that's all that matters to me. Justice will be done."

"And how do you know it hasn't? You've read all about my nephew's twisted secrets. He was robbing little old ladies of their fortunes while engaging in sex with their daughters in the name of God. Why should he live? He was taking God and his disciples to the cleaners. It was God's will. Ian deserved to die."

Ice blue eyes never left hers, challenging her. "No one deserves to be murdered. No one can take that decision into their own hands." The eyes shifted from her face to her clenched fists.

"Are you suggesting that I had something to do with it?" The hands were driven into pockets. "Talk to your cohorts at Gotham police headquarters. I was at a retreat in the Black Mountains when Ian was killed." She turned her back on him. "I certainly couldn't afford to hire someone. Go ahead and check it out for yourself."

"I already have." He took a step away, eyes still frozen. "I'll be watching." And he was gone.

That went fairly well. It was obvious to him that the woman was not lying. Nor was she telling the truth. There was no love in her for her dear departed nephew, that was certain, no remorse at his death. Yet she was also an enigma, damning her uncle for preaching God's word commercially, condemning him for making a living at it. She was as guilty as her nephew at that, just not as successful. Perhaps she saw it as a chance to expand her own business, but that didn't seem fair. Of course, life was seldom fair, Bruce Wayne had learned that in a dark alley when he was ten.

#bbbb#

It took only a few minutes to make his way across town to the next address. As opposed to the other, the tenant house struggled for life among the filth and decay of Gotham's north side slum. He slid the Batmobile into an alley and waiting for the last of the steel plates to settle into place before daring to leave the vehicle. Ever since the Penguin's misfired attempt on his life, the Batman doubted the security measures of the car, this despite having tightened them considerable. When he was satisfied that the car was impregnable, he reached for the batharpoon and aimed for the roof.

The internal winch easily yanked him skyward and he watched the building speed by. The roof zipped past and he braked the grapple to a stop. Hitting the release button, he dropped to the roof, starting as his right foot broke through rotten tar paper and boards. The Wayne Foundation was going to have to look into this. He pulled his foot loose and carefully tested the next spot before putting his full weight upon it. Even from here, he could smell the poverty, the hopelessness of the people who dwelled within. Or maybe it was just the garbage that was piled everywhere and he was merely getting maudlin in his old age. Whichever the case, he had a job to do.

The fire escape door wasn't locked, no surprise there. He opened it and forced his way through the mass of discarded paper, bottles, cans and other things he didn't like to think about. Some fire escape, the people wouldn't be able to use it for that even if they wanted to. The apartment numbers appeared to have been arranged in some kind of bizarre system that even the Batman couldn't break. Eventually, he located the apartment with the help of a wrong turn and an extremely social rat.

The door responded to his knock, opening slowly to permit a querulous eye to peer out. It started to shut the second the occupant caught sight of the stylized bat emblem. The Batman stayed its path with a single hand, gently applying pressure until it had opened enough to allow him passage.

"You can't come in here without a search warrant," the woman stammered. She was wrapped in a tattered sheet. The air within the apartment was frigid, peculiar in the summer heat.

"I'm not the police," Batman said quietly. It was hard for him to contain the revulsion he was experiencing. This was the sister of one of Gotham's most successful models, yet she lived, barely lived, in this poverty.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" Apparently he wasn't as successful as he thought. "And do you know what Al left me in his will? Nothing! After what he did to Mama, he left me nothing!" _That isn't my affair_, he cautioned himself and used the time to examine what little he could see of the apartment. Low watt bulbs barely managed to pierce the darkness immediately surrounding them, much less the entire room. Still it wasn't so large that much could remain hidden from view. "What do you want, demon?"

That brought his attention sharply back to the woman. This was twice in one night he'd been called that, not the usual style of name calling to which he was accustomed. Most peculiar choice of words, especially after Alfred's paranormal discovery.

"I think you know," he said, switching the focus so that she was on the defense. He could tell she didn't like it as she turned and walked away from him.

"I can't know what you mean."

"Your brother's murderer."

"If you find him, let me know. I like to give him a reward for ridding the earth of something truly unholy. And if you're laboring under some misconception that **I** had something to do with it, there's about a hundred people who will vouch for me. I was working at the Day/Night Market. The boss needed extra help because of that damned lottery fever. I was waiting on a store full of people when that bastard got his." No remorse here and again he was struck by what he'd term coincidence, if he believed in such things.

"I'll be watching," he said simply, as if her guilt already something firmly established. He backed out the door, smiling as it slammed in his face the minute it could. He'd turned to leave when he saw her, an old woman was watching from the sanctuary of her own apartment, acting not so much afraid of him as something else. When she'd apparently decided it was safe, she gestured him over.

"Yes?"

"She's crazy, you know," the old woman said, pointing to the closed door. "Her own brother made her mad. After their mother died, she snapped."

"Snapped?"

"Said she was gonna get him for what he did." The old woman pulled herself upright, brushing at her ancient clothes. "**He** wouldn't have anything to do with any of us, except to say when he made it, we'd had it. He was going to buy the building and demolish it. She said she get him, that she'd call in outside help."

A third voice interrupted the old woman, "Mother, who you are talking to?" An even older man appeared at her elbow and he nodded seriously to the crime fighter. "Come along, Mother, and let the Batman do his work."

He took the woman's elbow and smiled uncertainly at the figure in black, "Please forgive my wife. She doesn't know what she's saying. It's a terrible thing to get old." Even in the near darkness of the hall, Batman could see the man shaking.

"No, Samuel, you heard her, too." The woman didn't want to budge, but finally relented to the firm grip.

"Nonsense, Mother, you're just getting confused. That was a TV show you were watching. Come along now." The door closed, leaving the Batman alone in the hall.

"I don't believe you, Samuel," the Batman whispered. "I think your wife knows more than you give her credit for. I also think you are scared out of your wits. But why?"

#bbbb#

His next visit was to Gordon's office. At this time of night, there was a good chance the man had departed for home. Batman secretly harbored the thought that Jim should just move in here and be done with it. Surprisingly enough, the office was empty, although the window was left open its customary crack, permitting the Batman free access in and out.

He slipped into the office and glanced around, making sure that he was indeed alone. Only immediate silence and distant noise greeted him. Batman moved to Gordon's desk and turned on a lamp. It illuminated a small spot on the desktop and not much else. Sitting down in the time-worn lumpy chair, Batman picked up the top file and scanned it. It was for a case he knew nothing about and it was quickly discarded for another file folder. Eventually he found what he was looking for. Gordon had properly used the suite as a link between the two murders and the attempt on Bruce Wayne.

The folders gave up nothing that the Batman didn't already know and he settled back in the chair to contemplate the situation. Two murders, two suspects and a possible killer that was right out of Greek mythology. "I wonder if it's too late to become a doctor," he said quietly, looking at the papers spread before him. If they held the answer, they weren't telling and after a long moment of contemplation, Batman pulled a slip of paper from his utility belt and wrote in a deliberate hand. 'We need to talk. B.' He left it, along with the file, where Gordon was certain to notice it in the morning. That accomplished, he departed to begin his nightly patrol.

"Jim's never going to believe me, Alfred," the Batman said, pulling off his cowl to become just the not-quite-so-dashing-or- exciting Bruce Wayne. Alfred offered him a box of tissue and cold cream. Wayne started to wipe the greasepaint from around either eye. He had nightmares about the day it would no longer come off and he'd have to explain that to someone why he had two permanent black eyes.

"You do have proof, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "Your previous suit still carries the evidence of your attack. Along with the fact that the Batman is not known to lie or exaggerate should be enough to convince Commissioner Gordon."

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to face him." Wayne's voice was dry. "Yea, Jim, there's this demon going around screwing all of Gotham's local talent." He leaned back in the chair and groaned as he stretched. "Alfred, am I sick to wish for just an old-fashioned extortion attempt or robbery? I'm even beginning to miss the normality of the Joker." He toed his left boot loose and bent to pull it off. "I need you to do a little more digging for me today, Alfred. See if you can find anything that might link the aunt and the sister. The smallest fragment might be all I need."

"Yes, sir."

#bbbb#

Bruce Wayne doodled on the pad of paper before him, doing his best to appear completely disinterested in the goings-on around him. All the while he was listening intent, his mind a good two steps ahead of his best advisor.

"What do you think, Bruce?" Lucius Fox asked, pulling off his glass and dropping them with an audible thump. It was apparent that he was frustrated with his CEO's lack of attention.

"Huh?" Bruce acted as if he was suddenly aware of his surroundings, then grinned at the black man. "Just kidding, Lucius, why do you pursue it until the end of the year and see what the figures say? If we're showing a loss, we'll deal with it then. I'd also like the figures on the downtown development park and low-cost housing. If we push it, I think we can get at least twenty five homes refurbished before the fiscal year end. Good tax break that we shouldn't miss. Is there anything else?" Bruce folded his hands before him and looked expectantly from one face to the next. "Great, thanks for your time." He was up and out of the boardroom before anyone could recover.

Bruce headed back for his office, pausing to address a few employees by name, asking after a wife, husband, or child, a trick that Alfred had taught him. People were less tempted to try and pull things over on you if they thought you knew them. It also endeared him to them to think that so important a man would remember their anniversary or what-not. So far, it had been very successful and it didn't hurt his image either.

"How's it going, Gwen?" he asked his private secretary, tapping two fingers on her blotter. "Any word on the expectant mother?" He picked up a picture frame and smiled at the photo of a Bassett hound.

"Vet says any day now." The smile that greeted him was sincere and unaffected. "You had a call from Proctor and Goods. They wanted to know if you'd had a chance to look over their contracts."

"Down in the Legal Dept. I should have an answer in two days."

"Dr. Thompkins called and wanted to know if you were going to keep your annual."

"I suppose," Bruce muttered, bending to read a letter the secretary was typing into the word processor. "Tell Research I expect to see a forty percent gain in overall performance or I'm coming down to lean on them...paraphrased, of course."

"Of course. And Mr. Pennyworth called."

"What did Alfred want?" His attention was minimal now as he looked through the incoming mail. He handed one envelope to the secretary. "Cut them a check for $25,000 and have it on my desk this afternoon."

"He said you should call him as soon as your schedule permitted."

"Who said? Oh, Alfred, right." With a wave, Bruce disappeared into his office.

The number was programmed into his phone, so it was a matter of punching a button and waiting.

"Wayne Residence".

Bruce didn't recognize the voice, but that wasn't unusually. Most of the time he never even saw the day staff. "This is Mr. Wayne. May I speak to Alfred, please?'

Another delay, then, "Good day, Master Bruce."

"Whacha have for me, Alfred."

"Not a copious amount of information, I am afraid. The police files did not contain anything but the barest of background facts. I am pursuing alternative channels, of course."

"Of course," Bruce balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear and started signing a series of letters. "You might try a background check into the actual victims. That might include something."

"Yes, sir. Shall I expect you at the usual time?"

"Right, no, wait, I have an appointment with Leslie, so I'll be late."

"I shall have your evening wear prepared for your arrival."

"Thank you." Bruce smiled at the innuendo. "I see you then."

#bbbb#

"Deep breathe please," Leslie Thompkins instructed and move the stethoscope a fraction to the left. "Again." Bruce Wayne complied with the orders while studying the interior of the examination room. Leslie was one of the few people who knew his secret and the only doctor he trusted with it. "Well, your heart is fine. At least all that working out has had some beneficial side effects. Lie back for me."

Ignoring the protesting crackle of paper, he reclined full length on the examination table and looked up at the water stains on the ceiling as the woman began moving her hands over his stomach. "You should let me move you to a better office, Leslie."

"Call me sentimental, but I like it here. Try to relax, Bruce, I can't feel a thing except your tensed muscles. I won't bite you. Where did you pick up that bruise or should I even ask?"

"Let me renovate for you, then. Those water stains have been there for as long as I've known you." He grunted as stiff forefingers probed a tender stomach. "What do you say?"

"That you were lucky not get a rupture from whatever it is that you won't tell me about."

"It's just war stories, Leslie. You don't want to hear them any more than I want to tell them." He involuntarily winced this time, eyes closed. "Take it easy, will you?"

"You never have - ever."

It was Leslie Thompkins who had discovered a shocked ten-year old standing over the bodies of his parents. She had helped Alfred to raise to him and she had yet to understand what drove him. She moved to his neck. "Have you been sleeping any more than usual?"

"Four or five hours is about the best I managed."

"How about the dreams?" She picked up an otoscope and bent his head to the right to examine an ear.

"Still with me."

"It's not too late to get counseling, you know." She switched sides, then changed to an ophthalmoscope.

"I deal with things a different way, my way." He pulled back instinctively as the instrument's light struck his eye, the hard surface of the exam table staying his retreat.

"I was going to ask if bright light still bothers you, but I guess that's not necessary. Tell me, though, is it because it really does bother you or only because you want it to?"

"How's your women's group going?" Bruce smoothly switched subjects as Leslie examined first one eye, then the other. "Still packing them in?"

"Unfortunately. There are so many women abused these days, although I'm not so sure that the situation didn't always exist. It's just been brought to light now and, God help us, has become fashionable."

"Wha...? The question was choked off by a tongue depressor.

"Not wha, ahhh. There's seems to be quite an influx of the well-to-do joining therapy groups. In fact, we even have a minister's sister."

Bruce pulled away and swallowed. Alarms bells were going off in his head. "Leslie, can I use your phone?"

"You can wait, we're almost done." She handed him a plastic cup and pointed to the door. "You know what to do." She snapped a rubber glove. "Then your favorite part of the exam."

Bruce made a face at her. "Maybe it's time for me to switch to an impartial doctor. You get far too much pleasure out of tormenting me." He slid off the table and took the cup from her. "Or maybe I could join your group."

Leslie shook her head and smiled, stroking his cheek affectionately. "Sorry, dear, you're too rich, too handsome, and too male. You'd send some of them into permanent relapse."

"Do you think I could use your phone first, just in case I don't survive the rest of your examination?"

"You've tried that one before. Alfred's not bailing you out this time. Go!"

#bbbb#

Bruce Wayne walked hurried into the Manor and looked around. He'd decided against using Leslie's phone, preferring to deliver the request in person. The entry hall was devoid of people and Bruce's head turned to contemplate each of the four adjoining rooms in turn.

"Are you quite all right, Master Bruce?" came Alfred's voice as the billionaire stood frozen in place. Leaping to action as if suddenly energized, Wayne turned and hurried to the side of his butler.

"Yea, according to Leslie." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "Alfred, I need you to check out the various battered women groups in Gotham. That may have been where Fletcher and Altaffer met." Bruce looked down at the printout that the butler held.

"Your report on the women's groups in Gotham, sir," Alfred said, holding it out to him. "The thought occurred to me as well. It was a rather precipitous investigation, but I think you'll find what you were looking for."

Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. "Alfred, what would I do without you?"

"I shudder at the thought, sir."

Bruce nodded absently as he walked away, already busily reading the details of Alfred's inquiries. He pulled up short of running into a statue and stared at it a moment before self- preservation dictated that he find a suitable surface and light. He picked the closest door and walked through it, closing it quietly behind him. Thick oriental carpets laid across the polished oak footsteps silenced his footsteps and he sunk down into an uncomfortable Chippendale chair. He abandoned it after a moment and moved to a settee. Considerably more comfortable, he resumed reading the report, while undoing his tie with his free hand.

Abruptly, he stood and walked over to a large fireplace. Reaching up on tiptoes, he manipulated the right bottom tooth of the gargoyle relief carved into the chimney. Glancing quickly left and right, he stepped over the log rest and into the fireplace itself, disappearing into the blackness.

#bbbb#

Batman hung from a line outside the window of Terrie Altaffer's apartment. The lack of moon made him invisible to any casual observer, but it was as dark within the apartment as out. There was no suggestion of movement, hadn't been any for the half hour that he'd been here. Either something had warned the woman of his arrival or she was laying low. Or she wasn't here at all. And if she wasn't here, where would she be?

He shifted his weight to one arm and reached out his free hand. The window was reluctant, but eventually he pried it up enough to get his fingers under it. Smoky stale air assaulted his face and he was struck by something that hadn't occurred to him before. It was the middle of summer, why was this apartment so cold?

He grappled the window open enough to permit him to slide gracefully inside. Flipping on a switch made him decide that either Altaffer had neglected to pay her electricity bill or the bulb was burned out. No matter, he dug a penlight out of his belt and twisted it on. A large wad of cloth caught his attention and he moved to it, kneeling to retrieve it. The dried blood stains stained the material and reflected black in the flashlight. The Batman cocked an eyebrow, invisible beneath his cowl. "How peculiar," he muttered, turning the cloth over in his hands. Someone had lost a lot of blood, too much to be up walking around; he was a bit of an expert in the area.

TheBatman stood and arced the light slowly around the room. That was when he saw it, poking from beneath a pile of newspapers. It was a hand and Batman was there in two steps, pushing away the papers to reveal a body. Expecting it to be Terrie Altaffer, the stranger's face startled him. Stranger? No, not quite, it had been the lady from across the hallway, the one who'd beckoned him over.

How did she get in here? And why? He shone his light over the body, wincing at the ferocity of the wounds. He couldn't tell if they'd been inflicted before or after death, but it didn't matter, not to him.

Light flooded the room from behind him and the Batman spun, crouching, fists ready for whatever was waiting for him. An old man stood in the doorway, holding a shotgun that looked as tired and ineffective as he was.

"I told her not to come," he mumbled, looking past the crimefighter as if the black figure didn't exist. "Told her to mind her own business." Eyes suddenly focused. "I was right, you know."

"I'm sorry," came the hoarse apology. It wasn't his fault, but Batman felt responsible, for not having been here in time, for not reacting soon enough, for not being able to place the pieces together fast enough. "Let me have the gun."

"It's too late," the old man muttered. "I tried to tell them all it was too late." He turned and walked away as if the life was being crushed out of him. Sudden realization spurred the Batman into motion, but it wasn't enough. The gun blast echoed in the dim halls of the apartment slum.

Batman clutched the door jam, teeth grinding together until it seemed they would evaporate into dust. "No more," he whispered through the clenched teeth. "It stops now."

#bbbb#

This time he made no attempt to hide his presence from Fletcher or anyone. He drove the Batmobile up the driveway and paused. The canopy slid back and he stood up, looking around to get his bearings. That was when he heard the scream. Not waiting to even consider the consequences of his actions, he dropped back into the vehicle and hit the gas.

The heavily reinforced steel of the Batmobile bit into the wood of the door as if it were wafer thin. The furniture that didn't have the common sense to get out of the way was scattered like chaff to the wind. The Batman leapt from the vehicle and headed for where the scream had come from.

The room he came to was pretty much like any other den, if you ignored the altar set up at the far end of it. The Batman didn't reflect upon it anymore than to give it cursory attention. He was more interested in the woman sprawled across an ottoman.

He turned her over and assessed the damages. She was bruised and bloodied, but still very much alive.

"What happened?" He demanded.

"She's gone over the edge," Rachel Fletcher whimpered.

"Who?"

"Terrie. She really believes..."

"Believes what?"

"That she's the demon. You've got to stop her."

"Let's see you try it," Terrie Altaffer suggested. She was wearing the white flowing gown and framed in the light of the patio door. "I am immortal and won't be constrained by human limitations." Batman had to concede that the minister was probably right. The flicker of insanity in Altaffer's eyes had grown to a blaze.

"You're going to jail," Batman said, rising and facing the woman. "For the death of your brother and her nephew, plus those two old people."

Altaffer laughed, shaking back her long golden hair. "I think not." She opened her robe and let it fall away from her. Rachel Fletcher started to low, much like an animal in pain, but Batman ignored her. Instead his attention immediately went to Altaffer's right shoulder. The wound made by the batharpoon had made was covered with a hasty bandage.

"You don't look immortal to me. You're just a very confused young woman," Batman said, all the while carefully easing his way closer to her. "Terrie, listen to me, it doesn't have to end this way. There are people who want to help you."

"I don't need them," Altaffer snapped. "And I don't need you to lecture me." She lunged at him, but here in this room, the spell she'd held over him in the hotel suite was gone. It was easy to sidestep her and the Batman drove his elbow down into the base of her neck. An ordinary woman would have collapsed, but Terrie Altaffer was proving of stronger stuff than that.

She spun at the last minute and the blow glanced off her shoulder. A hand caught his elbow and pulled. Off-balanced, Batman went with the movement, rolled and came back up to his feet smoothly, without effort. Warily they began to circle each other like wrestlers.

Altaffer threw a series of blows, but Batman slapped them aside as if they were summertime gnats. It did nothing but fire the woman's fury. She snarled, staring at him with livid, bloodshot eyes. The robe came off and the wings flexed. The movement drew the Batman's attention for a split second, an eternity when your opponent is waiting for it.

The foot in his midriff brought his focus immediately back to the problem at hand and the knee crashing into his chin reinforced it. Batman tasted blood and felt his stomach rolled in protest as it took another crushing blow. There was no air left in him to fight with before a foot started to press against his larynx. His hands didn't respond to any of the messages being frantically sent them.

Abruptly, the urgency for air was gone with a splintering crash and a scream. Batman wheezed in several quick breaths and somehow managed to climb swaying to his feet.

Terrie Altaffer was in a crumpled ball on the floor and Rachel Fletcher stood there, holding what remained of a straight back chair. "Now it's over."

"It's never over," Batman said. "Call the police and an ambulance."

#bbbb#

"I still don't understand how she made the men age so quickly." Alfred Pennyworth offered a washcloth filled with crushed ice.

"She didn't," came the muffled answer as Bruce Wayne tried to talk around the cloth he held against his mouth. "The best I could understand was that somehow the two managed to break into the computer fingerprint filed and swap fingerprints around. Rachel was a bit of a hacker. Guess they come in all ages." The voice cleared as the dripping cloth was exchanged for the fresh one. "I've suggested to Jim that he tighten security on it."

"Then who were the dead men?"

"Homeless are the best I can figure. They buried Fletcher and Altaffer in the aunt's backyard. The yard was being landscaped, so it was a fairly easy task."

"Am I correct in surmising that the wings were akin to the ones you employ?"

"With an invisible harness. It was really pretty clever of them. There wasn't many stones they left unturned."

"Their desire for revenge is understandable with regards to their victims, but what of their attack on you?"

"It was something Leslie said. I suggested that I join her therapy group and she told me I was too handsome, too rich and too male. Either that or I was just a loose wheel who showed up in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The phone interrupted him and Alfred reached for it before Wayne could even react. Instead he reapplied the cloth to his swollen lip.

"Wayne residence... yes, Dr. Thompkins, how are you this afternoon...? Are you quite sure...? Very good, Doctor, I will inform him."

"What did Leslie want?" Bruce asked as the butler cradled the phone.

"She wanted to make you aware that your blood panel came back some unusual irregularities. Apparently there was a substantial level of cantharides in your blood sample."

"Cantharides?"

"I believe the colloquialism is Spanish Fly."

"Huh, that would explain a lot."

"There was also a chemical that Dr. Thompkins has yet to identify. The closest she's been able to come is a hallucinogenic slime produced by a type of Australian frog."

"If my mouth felt better, I would laugh. According to Rachel Fletcher's statement Terrie worked part time in the kitchen. Must have gotten it to me in the coffee." Bruce dropped the cloth and shook his head slowly. "This just keeps getting stranger and stranger, Alfred."

"A risk you face when choosing a profession with no existing job description." The butler said, his voice carrying over the rush of water as he rinsed out the washcloth. "Will you be going out this evening or shall I prepare a light dinner for you?"

"Something very soft. I think I'll stay in with a good book." He leaned over to pick up a book and held up the cover for the butler to see.

"Your grandmother would be proud, sir."

"Of course," Bruce answered with a cocked eyebrow. "Who else could brag that their grandson faced a succubus and lived to tell the tale?"


End file.
